


Running With the Devil

by Morteamore



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Western, Cheating, Forced Marriage, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, One-Sided Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, begrudging sex, ungratifying sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25814644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morteamore/pseuds/Morteamore
Summary: When Rhys' family traveled across Pandora to the Hyperion territories when he was young, they were aiming for a prosperous life away from famine and poverty for good. However, when a run in with bandits on the journey there leaves Rhys severely injured, those aspirations are quickly snuffed out. Fast forward some years later, and Rhys is a grown man trying to scrape together a living. He's also got a wealthy suitor by the name of Hugo Vasquez asking for his hand in marriage, something he's none too thrilled about, but feels obligated to agree to, if only to help his family. Enter Jack and Tim, two brothers he meets one fated morning not yet knowing they're bandits with big plans to stake their claim on the Hyperion territories. When their scheme gets put into motion, Rhys finds himself right smack in the middle of it, and seizes the one opportunity he may have to escape his unwanted future with Hugo.
Relationships: Handsome Jack/Rhys (Borderlands), Rhys/Hugo Vasquez
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, since this is probably going to be a long work, I'll be adding characters and tags as I go along, which means they're subject to change with each chapter. Being set in the old west, there are parts that could become graphically violent and such in the future. Please note that I've also added the cheating tag here in advance since parts of this fic will definitely contain such subject matter. That being said, I listened to a lot of Greensky Bluegrass and Johnny Cash writing this first chapter. They're both great bands/musicians that work as equally great mood setters.

There was nothing quite like the smell of fresh acrylic paint smeared on a palette that was both well loved and used; nothing better than the sound of a paintbrush as it stroked a blank canvas. This Rhys Yarwood knew from years of experience working with both, and as he raised a brush whose bristles shone a shimmering shade of cerulean, touched it to his canvas, he felt the first stirrings of excitement begin to chase away the darker thoughts that had been threatening to consume him. 

It was a flawless summer morning, hot, but not in the that typically awful, cloying way. In his linen short-sleeved shirt, vest, slacks, and newsboy cap, Rhys was comfortable. He’d brought his paints and supplies down to the river not because he’d felt the overwhelming urge to paint anything. No, his thoughts had been far removed from anything creative. He just knew that if he didn’t create something today, Hugo Vasquez was going to be short a painting to collect, and he didn’t want to incite the already irate man’s wrath.

It was Hugo that ma and pa had been fighting that morning about while Rhys lay in his bed, pretending he was asleep and couldn’t hear them. Well, not just Hugo, he recalled. Ultimately, it had been about Hugo’s involvement with Rhys. At age twenty-five, Rhys was a full grown man, and should have been married and moved out by now to start a family of his own. There were obstacles that barred that from having already happened, circumstances that prevented Rhys from being deemed an ideal suitor. The journey that his family had made when he was a child had been a rough one, the passage across Pandora from the withering Dahl territories into the prospering Hyperion ones treacherous. Their wagon train had been ambushed by bandits a few times, his pa and the other men, armed and strong in numbers, successfully beating them back each time. 

Their luck had run out in the Dust. One of Rhys’ family’s oxen had taken ill, collapsing in the dirt and sand, frothing at the mouth and quivering terribly. It had made the most awful sounds Rhys had ever heard in his young life, the howling, braying cries spiraling up into the air, consuming the space around him. If he concentrated, he could still hear them to this day, in the back of his mind. Upon inspection by his pa, a wound had been found on the oxen’s rear leg, the fang marks left behind drooling blood and clear, viscous venom. His pa had put the animal quickly out of its misery and hitched the wagon back to their remaining ox. However, the gunshot echoing across the barren wasteland had attracted unwanted attention. Bandits had swarmed their train as if the Dust had opened up and unleashed the denizens of hell itself. There was more than the train had ever seen, and pa and the other men had barely triumphed by the time the battle was over. Still, Rhys had been an unfortunate victim, his left eye and arm suffering in the crossfire of a crazed bandit wielding a buzz axe. The eye was a lost cause, unsalvageable. The others did all they could to try and save the limb, though. But after some days of treatment, the gangrene set in, Rhys feverish and delirious. They’d had no choice but to amputate it.

The diligent parents that they were, Rhys’ ma and pa had spent almost all their life savings on a robotic limb for him once they reached Hyperion territory. Not only on that, though. As he grew and the machinery needed maintenance and replacements, they found themselves pouring money into him that they barely had. With their dwindling savings, and the struggles they went through each new year to make ends meet, they never said it, but Rhys knew their resentment of him was festering. It was there, right beneath the surface, in the way his pa sometimes sighed and turned to his books when Rhys came home, in the way his ma ignored his presence by throwing herself into her cooking and sewing. Their little homestead on the edge of Prosperity Junction wound tighter and tighter with contention as Rhys grew into an adult.

And now, his parents just wanted him gone. Which was no easy task, considering his robotics made him an outcast and freak in town. The least his family could hope for was that he was married off to the richest contender. And Hugo Vasquez, if anything, was one of the richest men in the territory. The son of an oil baron, he’d been courting Rhys for over a year, initially interested in Rhys’ skills as a a painter. Hugo ran a gallery in the city of Opportunity that catered to the upper class. Rhys was quite a famous name there for his work, if only because Hugo jacked up the price tags for his art and sang him nothing but praises. In Prosperity Junction, nobody much cared for Rhys’ skills, thinking his robotic limb gave him advantage over _true_ artists. They couldn’t be farther from the truth. Rhys had been born left handed, trained in school early to chase away the devilish influence and use only his right. So when he’d lost his limb, he’d had to train himself from scratch to hold a paintbrush in his robotics. It had been excruciatingly difficult, and some days he had just wanted to give up the one thing that meant the most to him. However, he stuck by it, practiced for hours every day, and it ended up paying off. 

At least as long as Hugo stayed in business and relied on Rhys to supply him with fresh art, it did. Rhys didn’t honestly know what he would have been doing if Hugo hadn’t discovered him. He’d been struggling to make a living before that, taking odd jobs nobody else wanted in town, selling the occasional painting on the side if he could get lucky. He knew it was just another burden on his parents, that he was practically a ne’er do well. 

Now Hugo had asked his parents for permission for him and Rhys to get married, and the relief in them was palpable. They were wary, of course, not believing it very proper for two men to be together in such a way, since they couldn’t bare children. When it came down to the situation, though, they were willing to set aside the possibility of scrutiny from others for a chance to be part of the wealth Rhys would inherit in the process. Now they were arguing when the wedding should be without even consulting Rhys there was going to _be_ a wedding. In truth, Rhys should be angry with Hugo about that, but he’d address that later. His ire was with his parents for the moment, and he realized after a few minutes that he was mindlessly streaking the canvas before him with solid blue.

Rhys sighed and stepped back, lifting the canvas from his easel in the process. He set it down to rest against one of the easel legs, picking up another blank canvas from the pile he’d brought and setting it in front of him. He angled his head, staring down the length of the river, noticing for the first time that he was not alone at the bank. Some few hundred feet away, its velveteen neck bent to drink from the river, antlers towering up to a full ten-point rack of gnarled and sharpened horn, was a buck. The animal either hadn’t noticed him yet or didn’t care about his presence, because there was not a single tremor of fear in the graceful way it held itself.

Stricken by sudden inspiration, Rhys scrambled to get the right colors squirted out on to his palette, his brush working quickly to mix the white, brown, and black of its dappled coat. The buck still hadn’t lifted its head by the time Rhys was putting the first streaks of color to canvas. He couldn’t believe what kind of luck had been granted to him this morning.

Suddenly a shot rang out, a sharp, whip crack of a sound that made Rhys jump back and scramble not to lose his footing. He saw the buck rear up once, its front hooves striking the air before it collapsed into the grass, screaming the awful scream of a wounded, dying animal that Rhys knew all too well. He heard the hooting and hollering of a human voice a second later, the splashing of water. Two men had jumped into the shallow end of the river from the other side of the bank, wading across. As they came closer, Rhys saw that the one in the lead had a terrible scar branded across his face, the deep, craggy recesses of it visible even at a distance.

The person behind him had an eerily similar visage, almost like he was the man’s doppelganger. No scar marring his features, though. As they got close enough for Rhys to make out the finer details of their faces, he realized that they were twins. The scarred one held a hunting rifle in both hands, keeping it aloft so it didn’t get wet. His brother had a large satchel, worn crossways over his body. The two reached the other side of the river after a slow journey through the water, clambering up on to the bank, the scarred one unhurried as he set down his gun and drew a knife from a sheath at his belt. He crouched beside the struggling buck, steering clear of its thrashing hooves and antlers.

“Looks like we got ourselves a real big ‘un, Tim,” he heard the man call to his twin. “You got those supplies with you, right? We’ll just get the butcherin’ done out here. Keep the predators away from camp and all like someone smart would do.”

When the scarred man’s knife plunged into the throat of the buck, it was without ceremony. The animal gave one last final scream before blood cascaded down its fur, painting the grass red. It shuddered a few times before going completely still. _Tim_ , as it seemed he was called, was pulling different tools from his satchel. A bundle of rope, which he set down next to his brother; a carpentry roll that was stuffed full of butchering tools, and what looked like butcher’s paper and twine. It was around that time that the man happened to look up from what he was doing and spot Rhys. He froze in place, halfway reaching into his satchel to pull out whatever other apparatuses he kept stored in there. After a moment, he raised his other hand and gave Rhys a wave.

Not wanting to be rude, Rhys waved back, suddenly inspired by the gesture. The corners of his mouth twitched as he chose some more colors from his stash and quickly laid out the first strokes of a human figure on his canvas.

“Who you wavin’ to?” came Tim’s brother’s voice, and as his eyes fell on where Rhys stood painting, he unfurled to his full height once again. “Well, well, well, what exactly do we have here? I reckon we got ourselves a tried and true artist type. Oh, and you see that fancy robotic limb he’s painting with? I bet it’s worth a fair bit of coin down at the pawnbroker.”

“Come on, Jack. Just leave it be for once. We got work to do.”

“Naw, don’t reckon I will.”

As the man Rhys now knew as _Jack_ approached, trepidation coursed through him, pooling deep in his viscera. He willed himself to keep painting, thankful that his robotic arm couldn’t shake in fear, as his hand that held his palette was doing. Close now, Rhys could see the details of the horrific scar in full detail, the skin appearing burned raw. He wondered with a heady combination of dread and curiosity what could make such a mark on a man’s face, noticed in that time frame that Jack sported a glass left eye. It was different in color than his right, green instead of blue, and Rhys felt a strange jolt of camaraderie. Jack’s eye was false and miscolored in the same way Rhys’ was. That was not something he had in common often with people, if ever, and it made his guard ease up a little. At the moment, Jack wasn’t looking at Rhys, not even at his robotics. His gaze was focused on Rhys’ canvas, where the semblance of Tim had been coming together.

“Hey there, partner. What’s that you’re painting? Is that supposed to be my brother?”

Feeling a flush creeping up his cheeks, Rhys nodded, cleared his throat. “Y-yeah. I was painting the buck and—well you…shot it, and I need to paint _something_ for my, er, husband before he shows up sometime this afternoon.”

“Ya hear that, Timothy? Bucko here’s a fairy, just like you! Got himself a husband and everything. See, this guy’s gotten serious about marryin’ his boyfriend. Why haven’t you asked Wilhelm yet, dumdum?” There was the echo of laughter that spiraled up into the trees, Rhys’ face burning hot with embarrassment. Then the man was poking him, the feeling deadened by the fact it was his robotic shoulder. “Why you out here painting other men for your husband, anyway? That seems a little sketchy.”

“It’s, well, it’s for business. And he’s more my fiance, really, than husband.” A nervous chuckle escaped Rhys. “Not that it matters at this point. I’ll be married off to him soon regardless.”

Tilting his head back, Jack stroked his chin. “You don’t sound very happy about that fact for some reason.”

“It isn’t that.” Turning to face Jack, Rhys adjusted his cap, sighing. “Well, it is, maybe a little. I’m just trying to help my ma and pa out like a good son.”

“Shit, kid, if helping them out means you get to be unhappy with your lot in life, then you sure ain’t doing the right thing now, are ya?”

“It’s not the point, whether I’m happy or not.” Rhys went back to his canvas, glancing over to Tim, who he noticed was trussing the buck’s rear legs together with rope and throwing the loose end over a thick tree branch. He made several strokes with his paint brush. “I owe my parents a great deal of spiritual debt. The least I can do for them is give them a comfortable life in return.”

“Well, if ya ask me, spiritual debt ain’t no real debt, which means you owe them _nada_. Go forth and be free of ‘em.”

“Easier said than done. I’m a skilled enough painter, but I ain’t much else.”

“That sounds a hell of a lot like a _you_ problem. And ole Handsome Jack here doesn’t really deal well with _you_ problems.” There came upon Rhys’ back a patting, Jack’s warm, wide palm striking his shoulder blade a few times. “If you’re gonna stick around here awhile and paint my brother, make sure you get me in there somewhere, too. Don’t wanna be left out when you get all famous.” 

Despite the situation, Rhys found himself smiling. “There’s little chance of that ever happening. Least on a Pandora-wide basis.”

“Aw, come on…er…what was your name again?”

“Rhys. My name’s Rhys.”

“ _Rhys_. Huh. Interesting name. But, anywho, Rhys, kid, ya gotta keep the faith. You’ll get that fame and fortune one of these days if you’re as skilled as you say you are. Oh, and be sure to get my good side when you go on and paint me.”

It was on Rhys’ tongue to ask just what side that might be when he realized that either **a)** Jack was messing with his head or **b)** Jack was _that_ vain to believe he had one. Still, Rhys admitted that the scar wasn’t entirely unattractive. Frightening in some ways, sure, but it didn’t make Jack _ugly_. In fact, Rhys found himself intrigued by it, lured in by its clandestine origins, and was eager to commit it to his canvas. Rarely did he get to paint subjects so interesting.

That ended the conversation. Jack turned his back on Rhys and sauntered off to go help his brother heave the buck up the tree, not breathing another word about Rhys’ fancy robotics. Rhys was grateful for that. For a heart-stopping length of time, he’d thought maybe the brothers were bandits, since Jack had mentioned selling the arm to a pawnbroker. Now he figured that had probably just been the man’s odd sense of humor. At least that’s what he was convincing himself to believe. 

The morning grew long, stretching it’s warm wings into a heated afternoon. From his vantage point, Rhys watched as Jack and Tim skinned and gutted the buck with precision, glad he wasn’t standing downwind from the carcass. Under the glare of the sun, its scent was likely not pleasant. Both Jack and Tim had to stop frequently to drink from their canteens and mop sweat off their brows. At one point, Jack took off the brown vest he’d been wearing and unbuttoned the white shirt beneath. Blood splattered both the garment and his skin, giving him a grisly appearance. Tim managed to avoid most of the gore, primarily busy with wrapping up the meat Jack carved off the buck and handed him.

All the while, Rhys concentrated on the imagery before him, trying to make things less garish on his canvas. He doubted buyers would appreciate the gruesome mess that the real life scene was, scaling back his focus to mainly the brothers. Where Jack had gray streaking his hair at his forehead, Tim did not, he realized, adding that particular detail. 

Some hours passed by as if time was being wrangled and dragged forward. Rhys was nearing putting the finishing touches on his painting. He hadn’t even realized the brother’s had finished up with their task, were wiping off their tools and beginning to pack things away. Tim had gone into the brush across the river bank where he and Jack had come from earlier and emerged with two belliks trailing behind him, leading them across the river. Skins were strapped to saddles, other supplies loaded on the steeds. Once everything was secured, the brothers walked their animals towards where Rhys was still painting.

“Oh, huh, lookit that,” Tim spoke up, his finger coming dangerously close to drying paint as he pointed. “Looks just like the pair of us.”

Jack, who was busy buttoning his shirt back up, came up behind Rhys, crowding him. “You weren’t lyin’ to me, kiddo. Thats some real nice frickin’ skill ya got there.”

“Thanks,” Rhys said, feeling chuffed. “And, er, thanks for letting me paint the two of you, I guess. I mean, you did shoot my original subject, but, er…if you’re ever in Opportunity, stop into the Vasquez Gallery on Main street. You might see yourselves for sale there.”

“Shit, now I’m feelin’ real fancy all of a sudden,” Jack said, turning back towards his bellik. He stuck a booted foot in the stirrup, hoisting himself into the saddle. Tim did the same with his own bellik. “When you said it was for business, didn’t think you meant that. Reckon we won’t be heading to that city in awhile, though. Shame.”

“Hey, Jack, ya know, this has me thinking a bit,” Tim spoke up, eyeballing the painting. “You sure this is safe? I mean, with everything going on lately….”

Jack snorted. “S’safe as milk, if it ain’t safer. Ain’t nothin’ goin’ down that we ain’t got a grip on, anyway. Don’t you be worryin’ your anxious ass off about any of it.” 

“I’m just sayin’—”

“Ah-Tut-tut, Timtams. Hush now.” With a cluck of his tongue, Jack directed his bellik into a trot. “Nice meetin’ ya, Rhys. Maybe we’ll share a drink ‘round the saloon if we ever run into each other in town.”

“I tend to stay away from alcohol.”

“More for me then.” Raucous laughter filled the air. “Come on, Tim. Get a move on already.”

“I’m right behind you,” Tim said, his bellik following behind Jack’s. “Sheesh.”

More braying laughter erupted from Jack. Rhys just shook his head at the brothers’ antics, turning his attention back to his canvas to make the final strokes.

XXX

It wasn’t far from the river, the homestead that belonged to Rhys’ parents. Just far enough for the hike to be considered decent exercise, but not enough to warrant taking one of the belliks there. As Rhys crested the hill where the trail that lead to his home began, he saw that there was a stagecoach parked alongside the wooden fence, several steeds tethered to the front. The coach was a familiar sight. Approaching it, a shrill yapping suddenly came from the direction of the house, a lean and muscular juvenile skag appearing seconds later. It barreled towards Rhys, tongue lolling out of its vertical jaws.

“I missed you too, Barnabus,” Rhys greeted it as it skidded to a halt, its butt wriggling. He bent to set down his art case and give the skag a few pats on the top of the head.

Suddenly, the front door of his home creaked open. Standing in a dapper black suit, ornate ebony and gold cane in his hand, hair swept impeccably with pomade, was Hugo Vasquez. 

“Good afternoon, Hugo,” Rhys said as he approached his fiance. “I didn’t expect you to be coming by so early.”

Reaching for his pocket watch, Hugo flipped the lid, glanced at it. “It’s nearly four in the afternoon, Rhys. Your mother informed me you’d gone down to the river. I was just on my way to find you. Were you there all this time?”

“I’ve been working all day to finish this painting for you. I’m not all that sure if this one will be as popular as some of the others have been, but the subject matter is real unique.”

The front porch squealed in protest as Hugo stepped down off it. He reached to sweep a chestnut lock that had come free of Rhys’ cap back off his forehead, leaned in to peck him on the cheek. “May I see it?”

Rhys indicated the square object wrapped in brown builder’s paper and secured with twine tucked under his robotic arm. “Sure. We’ll have to go inside so I can unwrap it, though. Didn’t want it getting harmed none on the walk back home.”

“On second thought,” Hugo was quick to say. He lifted his cane to gesture towards the stagecoach. “Why don’t we ride through the countryside for a bit instead. We can discuss things in private there.”

It was difficult for Rhys not to let his expression sour. His lips twitched, trying not to turn down in a frown, his shoulders slumping. He bowed his head. “I’d rather go inside to talk, if it’s all the same.”

Hugo’s thumb and forefinger found Rhys’ chin. The man lifted the other’s head up until their gazes were locked. “It would please my greatly if you rode with me instead.”

Some moments passed. Rhys’ sigh was as if he were expelling every last bit of air from his being. “Alright, Hugo. I think I can manage that.”

“Excellent.”

His arm slung across Rhys’ shoulders, Hugo led him back the way he had come from.

XXX

The coach’s shades were drawn, the undercarriage rocking slightly with Rhys and Hugo’s movements. Slumping back against the bench seat, Hugo pulled Rhys close to his chest, groaned. His pants were pushed down, pooled around his ankles, the undergarments he wore undone. Between his legs, his cock stood erect, precum dappling the straining, purpled head. Some of it graced the skin of Rhys’ bare ass, leaving a smeared trail behind as Hugo sought purchase inside him.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t keep me waiting today,” he said, his lips brushing Rhys’ pulse point, teeth bared a moment later. He bit down, gingerly at first. Rhys grunted as it gradually became more savage. It would probably end up bruising later. “There’s lubrication in my pocket.”

Rhys reached into Hugo’s suit coat, pulling out the small vial of oil. Of course Hugo had come prepared. He pulled the stopper and poured the slippery liquid onto his hand, reaching behind himself to work some against his entrance. It was without ceremony that he pressed a finger past the tight ring of muscle, holding in his gasp as it slipped inside. Since Hugo was impatient today, and Rhys wished only to oblige him, he didn’t wait until he had settled into the stretch before sliding in another finger alongside the first, his body arching with the tension. This time he couldn’t hold back the sound of pleasure that clawed up his throat, his groan kept low and quiet. With lips and tongue, Hugo kissed him breathless, then, the scratch of his beard tickling Rhys’ skin.

In all the time Rhys had been with Hugo, the other man had barely ever helped prepare him. With Hugo, it was almost always all about his own pleasure, how quickly he could bury himself within Rhys’ tight confines and satisfy his carnal desires. It was left to Rhys to ensure his own pleasure out of their couplings, or at least make sure that he’d be comfortable during them. He hated it, this lack of concern for his wellbeing and enjoyment, his resentment of Hugo strongest during their lovemaking. No, Rhys couldn’t bring himself to even call it that. This was just Hugo fucking him and he going through the motions as if he were nothing but a whore, plain and simple. By the time he’d managed to wriggle three fingers inside himself, the bitterness in Rhys was so rife that he could taste it on his tongue, tinny and cloying. Trying to pull himself back from the brink of an all too familiar fury, Rhys slipped his fingers out, reached around for Hugo’s cock until he had it in his grip and squeezed.

The sound that erupted from Hugo was steeped in both pleasure and pain. He drew back a bit to glare at Rhys. 

“Stop dawdling. I’ve already informed your family that I’d be joining you all for supper. We don’t have so much time that I can wait for you to quit playing coy.”

“S-sorry,” Rhys stammered out.

Something in Hugo’s gaze softened. He nuzzled into Rhys’ hair, breathing in his scent. “That’s alright, darling. It’s only that I’ve been waiting all day to have you to myself for a little while.”

Nodding, Rhys didn’t argue against the saccharine tone the man took with him. Hugo could be awfully manipulative, and Rhys had learned not to try and resist, lest it spiraled down into an endless debate. His fiance received what he wanted most often than not, and that was just the way things were. It was early in their relationship that Rhys had learned not to put up a fight. His hand slid up and down the other man’s pulsating shaft a few times, working the excess oil on his hand into the velvety skin and over the dome of the head. Then he was guiding Hugo’s cock to his entrance, adjusting himself into a better position to thrust down on to it. The head glided against his backside a few times, creating a delicious friction that even he was hard pressed not to groan over. The sound only served to encourage Hugo, and he bucked his hips, mouth falling open as he caught against Rhys’ entrance, began to push inside. With Rhys’ guiding hand, it inched in until the head was engulfed, Rhys clenching up as he often did at the initial intrusion. The moan that escaped Hugo was boisterous, filling the carriage. Bearing down despite the tautness of his muscles, Rhys slid along the shaft until he was almost touching the curly dark hairs at the base. Hugo moaned again, trying to push upward to clear those final few inches, but Rhys shifted opposite him, shimmying until Hugo was nearly spilling back out of him.

“You’re quite the tease sometimes,” Hugo murmured in Rhys’ ear. “Normally, I’d find that alluring. But my only wish right now is that you’d just get on with it.” 

Rhys didn’t respond. If there was one thing that he was grateful for, it was that Hugo leaned more to the average side of cock size than he did to the overly large. Granted, Hugo was the only man Rhys had ever laid with, and it wasn’t like Rhys went around comparing other’s sizes. He only knew that Hugo’s was not much longer or girthier than his own. By this point, Rhys had coupled with him enough times to be entirely used to taking it inside himself, and was proud that, if anything, he could drive Hugo’s passions to the brink if he chose to. It was a vicarious pleasure, watching Hugo squirm and buck as Rhys sank down on him once more; Rhys’ only pleasure in this. This time the movement was quicker than before, more force behind it, his ass gliding all the way down until he’d hilted. 

On his way back, a hand wrapped around Rhys’ own cock. The erect length throbbed at the contact, a droplet of precum oozing out to gather at the tip. Hugo’s thumb swept over the slit, smearing it, and Rhys gasped, not having expected such a gesture. Heat gathered in his gut, spreading down to his groin and taking root along his cock. As he found his rhythm along Hugo’s shaft, he whimpered despite himself. Teeth caught on his ear lobe, clamped down on it, pulled. The sharp prickle of pain eased into pleasure in a flash, his ass grinding down against Hugo’s groin as he squirmed. 

They moved together, knowing the steps of the dance by now, their familiarity with each other’s bodies lending itself to Hugo’s sighs and groans of pleasure, even occasionally Rhys’. Rhys could feel the sweat trickling off his forehead, running down his face like tears as he moved up and down Hugo’s length quicker and quicker still, his muscles milking the shaft, trying to coax Hugo’s orgasm from him as well as chase his own. The man beneath him was nearly there, he could feel, Hugo’s hairy legs quivering with his efforts to stave it off, make this last just a little while longer. It wouldn’t work, at least not for long. From experience, Rhys knew it never did. He doubled his efforts, clinging to Hugo as if his life depended on it, fingers rumpling the fine suit coat the man wore. If they weren’t currently in the throes of passion, Hugo would’ve been furious with him for that. But the man beneath him’s hips were currently stuttering, his mouth finding Rhys’ again, lips and tongue hot and damp against Rhys’ own. As they melded into the kiss, Hugo’s body jerked one final time. A second later, he was moaning as his orgasm hit him full force, filling Rhys up with warm, powerful spurts of cum even as the other man continued to ride him. 

Rhys was so, so close himself. He just needed a few more strokes and he’d be there. But Hugo’s hand suddenly fell away from him, both his hands going to Rhys’ hips to grip him tightly even as more cum spilled out of him. 

Slightly disgruntled, Rhys wrapped his own hand around his deprived length. He stroked himself quickly, closing his eyes, his breath hitching. Hugo was no help anymore, his body slumping, stilling. So Rhys was left to wrangle his own orgasm, trying to get Hugo deep enough inside him to strike the sensitive bundle of nerves that he knew would set him off. It was on a particularly sharp down stroke that it happened, the sensation arching up Rhys’ spine like lightning, his cock pulsing from root to tip. Streams of jism spilled out through his fingers, coating them, dripping down to touch upon where Hugo’s shirt was opened and his chest and stomach bared. He squawked in protest as the pearlescent streams coated his skin, drawing a handkerchief immediately from his pocket to wipe it away. Said handkerchief was proffered to Rhys with an annoyed gesture, who took it to wipe the dripping seed from the head of his cock. Rhys was glad he had his own handkerchief tucked away in his clothes somewhere, which were folded on the other bench seat, for he knew once he pulled off of Hugo he was going to have another mess to contend with. 

The two sat there for some time, catching their collective breaths, Hugo’s gaze on the roof of the carriage. He never did look at Rhys directly after they fucked, always avoiding the other man’s gaze until a fair amount of time had passed. Gradually, Rhys became aware of the movements of the carriage again, the steady clopping of the belliks’ hooves as they pulled the coach along, which he could hear faintly. His annoyance with Hugo was minimal today. Maybe because his morning had been interesting if not overly eventful. So he didn’t immediately clamber off the man, as he often did after coupling. Instead, he sighed deeply, leaning forward until his forehead was resting on Hugo’s shoulder. To his surprise, he wasn’t pushed away.

“Your parents will be expecting us back soon,” Hugo said after some time, nudging Rhys. “We should get to cleaning up and making ourselves look presentable again.”

“Right, of course,” Rhys answered in a deadpan. He pulled back from Hugo, then, beginning to lift himself off the other man’s lap. Hugo hissed, overly sensitive now, his softening length slipping from Rhys’ snug entrance. Finding his footing, Rhys helped to clean the excess seed off of Hugo, then used his own handkerchief to wipe down the backs of his own legs. He’d prefer to bathe to properly clean himself, but this would have to do for now.

By the time the coach driver had steered them back to the Yarwood homestead, it was impossible to tell what they’d been up to only a little bit prior. Barnabus rose to his feet as Rhys exited the coach first, running in a tight circle in excitement at his master’s secondary return. At Hugo’s approach, the skag waddled over to him and tried to jump up in greeting, but Hugo shooed him away with his cane.

“I hope you’re not planning to take that creature with you once we get officially married,” he said, looping his arm through Rhys’. “Skags are such uncouth animals. And that one is in serious need of a scrubbing.” 

Frowning, Rhys refrained from replying, letting Hugo lead him the rest of the way up to the house in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is currently discontinued, and this chapter was the last of what I had written of it. I might pick it up again some day, if the mood strikes me. But for now, I won't be adding to it.

Camp was not far for Jack and Tim. They trotted up on their belliks, following the narrow forest path that lead to the heart of where their wagons and tents were set up. At this hour, right before dusk, the large troupe was mostly intact, people going about their own business, doing chores and preparing for supper. Jack tethered his bellik next to Tim’s and hefted the meat they’d carved on to his shoulders. His brother took up whatever he couldn’t carry on his own, and together the pair of them hefted their kill to where Moxxi and Ellie were preparing vegetables for the stew pot.

“Hey there, sugars,” Moxxi greeted the brothers as they approached. “Hope you brought some of them nice big slabs of meat for me.”

“I’ve got ya meat for you right here,” Jack said, placing the wrapped parcels he was carrying on the work table and grabbing at his crotch.

Tim rolled his eyes, but Moxxi paused in her chopping. She raised the cleaver in her hand to eye level, her makeup stretching into a wide grin as she sauntered over to Jack.

“You won’t mind if I just take that from you, would you?”

“Oh, you can take it, alright.”

“Jesus,” Tim said, looking pale. “Don’t let Nisha catch ya talkin’ like that, Jack. I’m not dealing with the fallout between you two.”

“Relax. We’re just messin’ around.” Stepping around Moxxi, Jack patted his brother on the back. “Just a little crude banter between friends.”

Tim turned his head to look back at Moxxi. She cocked an eyebrow and raised her cleaver, her look sultry. He gulped and turned back to his brother.

“If you say so,” he said. “It ain’t my dick that’ll be in a sling if she gets pissed.”

The wrinkles in Jack’s brow deepened. He looked ready to open his mouth, answer Tim, but a shout echoed through the camp like gunshot.

“Jack,” came a voice. “Come and chat with me a moment.”

It was Lilith calling him, her hand flipping fire red hair out of her eyes before going to her hip. The expression on her face was not one that sparked thoughts of being particularly pleased. Ignoring Tim for the moment, Jack passed the ancient weeping willow that marked the center of camp, its branches bowed to the ground, stopping only a few feet from Lilith.

“In my tent,” Lilith told him, and lead the way.

Being second-in-command among their troupe, Lilith had one of the more spacious tents at the camp, the inside decorated sparsely but with touches of personal affects and tchotchkes. She shared the space with her boyfriend, Roland, who was probably out helping around camp at this hour. In his place stood one of his closer cohorts, Athena, her stoic gaze boring into him at his entrance.

They cut straight to business. “So, I hear you’re planning to rob the bank in town,” Lilith said. “You know I’m not going to be able to let you do that.”

Head whipping towards Athena, Jack’s expression morphed into a scowl. “You tell her that?” he demanded.

Part of Athena’s reply was to cross her arms over her chest. “No,” she said, gaze still leveled with Jack’s.

“Athena had little to do with it,” Lilith elaborated for her. “I went looking for you and found these in your tent.” She gestured to a pile of papers spread out on a makeshift desk. One was a crudely drawn map with the clearly marked interior of the township bank. 

“You went into my tent without me being there?”

“It’s not that big a deal.”

“Says the person that went and snooped through my stuff.”

“It was lying out for anybody to see it. Anyone could’ve gone in there and found out what you’re up to.” A sigh escaped Lilith. “Nobody wants this kind of trouble around here, Jack. You go through with that robbery and we’ll have the law on our asses again. You’re lucky nobody else but me knows about it yet.”

“Lucky my ass.” There was a vicious snort from Jack. “The only way the law would even know it’s us is if we get caught. And we’re good at what we do, so we ain’t gonna get caught. I’ll shoot anyone of us that does myself.”

At that, Athena narrowed her eyes, but still didn’t say anything. Lilith caught the look and struck an akimbo stance.

“I questioned Athena about your plans once I realized what they were. I know who you’re bringing along on this job with you. There ain’t no way you’ll shoot any of them.”

“Oh yeah? Unlike you, I have no qualms about putting the lame in this flock out to pasture if it comes down to it. Not that I’d downright kill ‘em, anyway. Putting a few holes in ‘em and leaving them for the law to beat around works just as fine for me.”

“You’d do that to Nisha?” Lilith questioned, her words needling. “Or your own brother?”

“Especially my own brother. Don’t want him sullying the Lawrence name, after all. As for Neesh, she’d never fuck up that badly.”

There was a long bout of silence. Lilith seemed to be deciding something, and Athena was too busy glaring to speak. Jack was growing impatient, his weight shifting from one foot to the other.

“What, neither of you got a damned thing to say?” he asked the two women after some time. “I’m going through with my plans no matter who approves of it here. Nobody’s gonna tell me otherwise. I’m in charge of this camp. If somebody has a problem with what my people do, they can whine to my brother, cos I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

“Alright,” Lilith finally said with a note of grim acceptance, then repeated, “Alright, fine. I’m not going to stop you from robbing the bank, Jack. You want to do something that’s detrimental to your own encampment, you go ahead and do it. Just know that if you go through with it, you’ll likely to make an enemy of me, and that’s probably the last thing you want. There are more people here that will stand behind me than they will you when it comes down to it.”

“I’m not afraid of sirens and their alleged posse, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“It’s not.” Lilith’s voice was a deadpan. “But, funny you should say that. Last time I checked, you were pretty adamant about not running into the Calypso Gang for that reason.”

That got a response out of Jack, who cocked his head, his expression hardening. His gaze wouldn’t meet Lilith’s nor Athena’s. He swallowed audibly, a hand subconsciously rubbing at his flank where the thick, jagged scar ran across his skin under his clothing. The Calypso brother had given him that scar; Troy, the only male siren in existence. They’d been locked in fisticuffs outside one saloon or another on a moonless night, beating each other down in the mud like a pair of untamed skags scrabbling over the last scrap of meat. It had been muscle against muscle, the dull thud of it impacting against each other still vivid in Jack’s memories. Then the bastard had fought dirty, pulled out a long, wicked knife from the sheath at his belt. He’d been smart and aimed for vitals, but had been sloppy about it, making Jack one lucky bastard. He still remembered the way Troy had cackled at him as he lay there screaming, kicked him in the ribs and just pointed and laughed some more. Eventually he’d sauntered off with a wave, but not before stepping on Jack as if he were nothing more than offal. Tim had come to his rescue, got him back to camp before he could bleed out. Like the Calypsos, Jack’s troupe had a second siren among their ilk, Maya. She’d healed him over the course of the night, telling him how Troy had pierced his gut, making it clear that without her assistance he would be dead in some days or even hours. 

If Troy was an unhinged bastard, though, his sister, Tyreen, was worse. Though Jack had never met her, both Lilith and Maya spoke about her at length, the thinnest membrane of fear in their tones when she was the topic. That fear seemed tethered to her abilities. Apparently, she had some kind of leeching talent, capable of stealing life force from both humans _and_ sirens. The husks she left behind when she drained it littered territories the Calypso Gang frequented, so the word went. Jack had only seen a cluster of husks once, and it had unnerved him on some primal level. 

“The Calypsos are psychotic and you know it,” Jack shot back.

“He has a point,” Athena said, breaking her silence.

“Don’t defend him,” Lilith snapped at her. “I see the way Tim and Wilhelm follow blindly along behind him. He’s got them whipped like dogs. Don’t you be one of his dogs, too.”

“I am nobody’s dog.”

“This is an entertaining conversation and all,” Jack interjected, “but can I have my goddam maps and shit back? I kinda need those, ya know, if I don’t want to have any run-ins with the law.”

Lilith merely gazed at Jack for a moment or two. Then she gestured towards her desk. “Take what’s yours. Just don’t mess with anything else.”

“Wise choice.” Rifling through the papers on the desk, Jack took the map of the bank and other papers that he’d drawn up himself. He rolled them up carefully, gripping them as if he were willing to defend them with his life. “Nice chat we had, Lilith. It was really enlightening. Come on, Athena, we have work to do.”

For a moment, Lilith and Athena looked at each other, their expressions both stoic.

“I’m sure Janey wouldn’t approve if you told her what you’re up to,” Lilith said, sounding desperate to have Athena consider otherwise. Athena turned away sharply, falling into place behind Jack.

Lilith just shook her head.

XXX

The knock on the door came as Rhys was finishing his breakfast of bacon and eggs. The bacon had been thick and crunchy and greasy just the way he liked it, the eggs fresh from some rakk’s nest or other. As far as he knew, his family wasn’t expecting any guests, so he figured whoever was at the door was somebody local.

“I’ll get it,” he called through the house, knowing his ma would hear him in the kitchen. 

When he opened the door, his childhood friend was standing there. Fiona tipped her hat at him, the expression on her face full of mischief.

“Saw Hugo’s carriage here yesterday,” were the first words out of her mouth. “So, how’d that go for you?”

Rhys looked over his shoulder and stepped out on to the porch. He closed the front door behind him. 

“How do you think it went?” he shot back, frowning at the ire in his tone. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. It was a rough night.”

Fiona’s eyes narrowed. “He didn’t do anything to you that you didn’t want, did he?” 

The laugh that erupted from Rhys was humorless. “When has he ever done anything that I _did_ want?”

“It’s not funny, Rhys. That man is taking serious advantage of you and your talent.”

“There’s not much I can do about that.” Waving Fiona over, Rhys took a seat on a handcrafted bench sitting on the porch. She came and sat down beside him. “We’re engaged to be married. Nothing short of him keeling over dead is going to get me away from him. Especially since I’m essentially his golden calf, with the paintings.”

“I could take care of that for you.” When she spoke, Fiona’s voice was a deadpan. “A few well placed words or a single bullet could do the job real quick. Just tell me when.”

“Fiona, you can’t,” Rhys protested, a note of panic creeping into his words. “He’s a highly influential man. You wouldn’t just get a slap on the wrist. The law would come down on you hard.”

“Only if they catch on that it was me.”

“Fiona!”

“You can relax. I don’t mean it. Well, not exactly.”

“Anybody catches you talking like that, won’t be so easy to talk your way out of it.” 

“You’re forgetting whose company you’re keeping, Rhys.”

Sitting back against the headrest of the bench, Rhys sighed. Fiona reached over and patted his shoulder. She didn’t like the way he flinched away from her, or the defeated look in his eyes.

“I’m not kidding, though,” she said after some time that they’d sat in silence. “You need an out, Rhys, we’ll getcha out. Even if it means running for one of the other territories or doing hard labor, or both, I’ll help you get out. Anything is better than having to be married off to that selfish prick.”

But Rhys was shaking his head, his robotic hand locking with his flesh one, the fingers wringing together. 

“I can’t,” he said, and it sounded like the weight of all Pandora was suddenly on his back. “I can’t do that to my parents. I owe them this much.”

“You owe them a lifetime of misery?” Surging from her seat, Fiona struck a pose before him, arms crossed over her chest. “Of subjugation and slave labor, being treated like a common whore for some rich asshole’s pleasure?”

“It ain’t gonna be exactly like that. Once we’re married, it should get easier.” A pause, Rhys not quite able to meet her gaze. “I like most people enough. Maybe I could learn to even love him.”

“Godammit. Why are you being so stubborn about this?”

“Because I know, at this point, there’s nothing to be done about it. I can’t just tell him no, I’m not going to flee my home, and there’s no guarantee he wouldn’t pursue me if I left anyway.”

Fiona fell to silence again. For a long time, she just stood there scowling, eventually shaking her head.

“So there really is nothing to be done about it.”

“At this point, I’d be hard pressed to come up with anything. Trust me, I’ve tried. You’re welcome to keep working at it if you’re up top it, though. Just don’t keep your hopes up too high because chances are Hugo could thwart every good plan we got.”

“Fine. I’ll bear that in mind. Not gonna give up on you, though.”

At that, Rhys finally smiled. It was watery, barely reaching his eyes, and lacked any real warmth behind it, but it was the least he could muster. His friend didn’t smile back, the lock in her eyes thoughtful. 

“By the way, I came by to see if you were busy this afternoon.”

“Got chores, but nothing I couldn’t talk my way out of. Why? You have plans for something or other?”

“Was going to go down to the river and do some fishing, catch some fresh lunch. I wanted to know if you wanted to come along.”

“It’s a hot day for fishing, but I’d love to join you. If anything, maybe it’ll take my mind off things for awhile.”

“Sounds good. I got my fishing pole right here.” Fiona walked over to the steps where her pole was leaning against the railing, her tackle box sitting at the bottom of them. “Ready to head out whenever you are.”

“Let me just grab my fishing gear and let ma know I won’t be around this afternoon. She probably won’t be happy, but after the night I had yesterday, I think I got a good excuse to duck out.”

“Good. You can give me the real juicy details on the way to the river.”

Rhys wrinkled his nose in obvious disgust, but then just ended up shaking his head. He didn’t say another word as he stepped back inside the house.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chatter with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MorteAmore)


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